A few weeks later, the mother finds her father in the hospital with a back wound. He was caught by a shard. She learned from her father that Nikolai was killed on Nevsky Pyatochk, where he was buried in a mass grave.

Hiding the pain of loss in herself, the mother throws all her remaining strength to ensure the speedy recovery of her father. She didn’t forget about us either. Now we seem to see her at home more often. Alexey said that it was caused by Nikolai’s death.

Time passed so slowly but surely, gradually my father recovered and soon they promised to discharge him and let him go home. We were all really looking forward to his return, despite the grief for Nikolai, who was always a good brother and son. It seemed that if mom and dad were at home together again, our peaceful life would return, the way we remembered it, and most importantly, the blockade and even the war would end.

Based on these dreams and fantasies, we held on from day to day. However, unpleasant events continued to knock on our lives. After which Ivan and Leonid still haven’t sent a single letter, despite their heartfelt promises to write every day. For some reason, Masha was especially worried about this. After the news of Nikolai’s death and her father’s injury, she generally changed somewhat, became more silent and thoughtful, and could cry a little. Although we did not know this at the time, her hidden premonitions were not born out of thin air: in 1943, Ivan and Alexei were recognized as missing. It so happened that that was the last time we saw each other on their vacation.

The situation at home was also difficult. The younger Sasha got sick again. Remembering Lena, who died in the fall, we tried in every possible way to take care of him, went to familiar doctors, sometimes even carried him almost in our arms, always made sure that he had a slightly larger ration, so that he slept in warmth, always drank fresh boiled water. But, alas, in the end all our efforts and efforts were in vain. Later, when we leave the city, he will die in the evacuation anyway.

8

It was the month of May. Compared to winter, it has become much easier. In any case, there was no longer the bone-chilling cold and the frightening darkness of the streets. The food situation has also improved. The mother was able to get additional rations for a large family, so there was a little more food.

Since our neighbors evacuated, we were allocated another room. The father returned home, but he was not recognized. He has aged noticeably and is very weak. He lay quietly in the room for several days. But most importantly, he was home now. We also received some long-awaited letters from Ivan and Leonid. They were fine, although they were transferred to the southern front, and it was not entirely clear when we would see them again.

Nevertheless, new challenges awaited us. I don’t remember what kind of day it would have been, but Alexey and I were at school. The raid began, and after its completion we were allowed to go home. When we set foot on our native street, we couldn’t recognize it. Several houses were destroyed, including our house.

With the most terrible thoughts, we approached the front arch. Ours were there. My father, sister and brother escaped because they went out for a walk in the yard, but Baba Katya could not be saved, the bomb exploded right in her room.

We were all alive, but we were homeless. The whole family went to the local district committee, where we were accepted surprisingly quickly and without hesitation were given new housing somewhere in the Vyborg district. After receiving all the documents, my father went with us to the specified address to settle in a new apartment, and sent Masha to the hospital to her mother, tell her about what happened and escort her to a new house.

I had little idea what our new home could be like and what kind of Vyborg district it was, which years later would become my family forever. Alexey knew much more about this area, his classmate lived there, whom he visited a couple of times. Therefore, we discussed this part of the city all the way and assumed what our new home might turn out to be.

– So this is the area of old dachas? – I asked my brother.

– Yes, Pushkin was fatally wounded in a duel in those places, – he replied, – Who knows, maybe the windows of our house, I will go out just to this place!

– It can’t be! It was in the 19th century, the wooden house would not have stood so much, – I disagreed.

– There are many old houses there. You’ll see for yourself soon, – Alexei said, pointing ahead.

Indeed, it was an area of small wooden houses, comfortably located in blooming gardens and the shade of mighty forest parks. It seemed that this place was free from war and blockade. Birds were singing on the branches, locals were digging in the gardens, summer was making its way through the lively streets of the city.

One of these houses became our shelter for the next couple of months. It was a low two-storey house, slightly battered by time, but retaining some representativeness or rather attractiveness. Besides us, several other families lived in this house, so the check-in process was somewhat delayed. My father had to negotiate with the new neighbors for a long time and, referring to the permission, asked to vacate two rooms for us.

In the evening, mother and Masha also came. That’s when we started checking in the rooms and unpacking the remaining things. My parents moved into one room with the younger Sasha, and the three of us in the other. As our neighbors called it, the guest room.

All this time, moving furniture and putting things in order, my brother and I continued to argue about our house, Pushkin and the duel. By chance, my sister heard our argument, laughed and said:

– Actually, Lenin stayed in this house before leaving for Finland. It’s a shame! You should have known that!

Her words made a strong impression on Alexey and me and our arguments stopped. For the rest of the day, we silently helped to arrange the rooms. I returned to this thought again when everyone was settling down to sleep and the lights were out. Taking my place near the window, I lay all night and thought that I was sleeping exactly in the place where Lenin once stopped.

(Young Central Asian woman with a black and white vest and pants, a white collared top, and white sandals. She has long dark hair and is holding textbooks).

Artistic interpretation of folk proverbs in the poetry of Boborahim Mashrab.

Abduvahidova Farangiz 

2nd stage student of Samarkand State University named after Sharof Rashidov.

Mashrab’s creativity has been captivating hearts with its charm, charm and sincerity. Therefore, many scientists and researchers are trying to reveal Mashrab’s poetry and make it easier to understand. One of such literary experts, A. Abdugafurov, commented on the unique style of the poet: “He created an attractive and charming mashrabona style in poetry. “Shokh weight and sonorous radif – rhymes, effective use of the lively language of the people, giving speed and enthusiasm to each verse are the unique qualities of the mashrabona style,” he writes.

Undoubtedly, although the poet did not create special didactic works during his career, he widely and effectively used proverbs, which are examples of folk art, and in this way taught people to be virtuous, to do good and meritorious deeds. wrote verses in the spirit of advice.

You are the best person in the world.

If you break the heart, the floating Kaaba will not be broken? (p. 159).

Through this verse, he exhorts the reader not to hurt someone’s heart, and he exclaims that you should forgive the language of the people, because the destruction of one heart is equal to the destruction of a hundred Kaaba. The meaning of this verse is consistent with the sayings of our people such as “Building one heart is a visit to the Ka’bah of a thousand Meccas” or “Dil ozori – God’s bully”.

Mashrab called everyone to do good deeds, saying that alimi guffar – a scholar of speech, that is, not only a speaker, but a virtuous deed – virtuous in practice, that is, be the owner of good behavior and good deeds. advises:

Don’t be a scholar, be a virtuous deed.

On the Day of Judgment, you will ask for the truth of the servants. (page 109)

The content of this verse is closely related to the content of the proverb “Knowledge to the wise, knowledge to the foolish”.

Mashrab talks about humility, which is one of the most unique characteristics of a person, saying that no matter how much the fruit of the tree is, the head is still (crooked), and he calls people not to be arrogant and proud.

If your head reaches the Throne,

Don’t lose your temper

Every tree has a lot of fruit

Raw… (page 125)

The main idea of ​​this stanza can be equated with the meaning of proverbs such as “Even with a small load, a camel kneels” and “Even if your head reaches the sky, walk towards the earth”.

In Mashrab’s work, we can see that he put forward ideas such as work and hard work, striving to master a craft.

A flower without a thorn, a flower without a pearl, there is no craft without hard work,

You can’t get to the bottom of the road without doing math. (page 149)

In fact, our people have long praised work and tried to raise children in the spirit of hard work. Therefore, the idea of ​​hard work is considered one of the leading ideas in our rich spiritual heritage, and a number of proverbs were created in this regard:

Work is pleasure at the base of work.

Work is the foundation of pleasure.

Work is the mother of pleasure.

We find these proverbs in a different form in mashrab interpretation:

I work to have fun

If you do, you will cry. (page 11)

In conclusion, the verses of the folk proverbs used above, which contain deep thoughts, reflect creation with a spirit of mashraban. He enriched his lyrics through our proverbs that have been refined over the centuries. Boborahim mashrab’s work is one of the masterpieces of Uzbek literature, and this charming and charming poem contributed a lot to the development of original human qualities such as hard work, humility, generosity, nobility, humanity, and respect in the young generation.

List of used literature:

1) Uzbek folk proverbs. T.: Sharq, 2005. Pages 27-28.

2) Kh-davron.uz

3) Sh. Shomaksudov, Sh. Shorahmedov. Wisdom. T.: 1990.

One Summer Day 1970                                                                   

Angie

I’m three three three one-two-three and nobody knows I’m up up up – Mommy sleeping sad in her big bed. Daddy at work – work work work after bacon and eggs and coffee at the restaurant. Love Daddy – I’m Daddy’s little girl. Climb one-two-three shelves for cereal in the cupboard – bowl spoon milk from the frigerator sometimes smells bad. Then turn the knob all-by-myself open the big door open the screen door out the door. No shoes no socks my feet my toes wiggle in the grass wet wet wet. Run run run to the barn pee in my big girl training pants and toss em in the weeds every-Mommy’s-bad-word-morning-when-will-she-learn. Bare bottom who cares I don’t care no one cares maybe grandma cares. Horses waiting for me me me at the gate one big one nice one mean one brown one white and a pony-just-my-size. And I pet their noses oh my gosh soft so soft and I feed them green grass even the white mean-to-grown-ups one who could eat my tiny fingers anytime it wants to snap-just-like-that but it doesn’t – never never never will. My big brodder’s watching me from his window thinks he’s the boss of me but isn’t the boss of me. Face scrunched and big frown always worry worry worry.

            Then my dog friends are waiting every-morning-same-place-same-time. Smokey knows only one trick shake shake shake the neighbor boys taught him a long time ago when he was my brodder’s dog. And Sammy with curly part-poodle hair. And the next-door-neighbor’s big big big red Ireesh Sitter with eyes that say something to me. Just us we all go running in the green grass taller than me and when I fall down my dog friends wait for me to get up and catch up. I just-know-it-lunch-time and cartoons and fight-every-Mommy’s-bad-word-day-driving-me-crazy-brodder time – who’s not the boss of me. And at nighty-night time Mommy awake – not a morning mommy. And Daddy’s home – I’m Daddy’s little girl Daddy’s home! Brodder shuts up but sometimes a story. Mommy finds at bath time tics in my ears burrs in my hair from the tall green grass. Daddy mad Brodder says told-you-so. Tics and burrs just like Smokey Sammy and the big big big red Ireesh Sitter who don’t get baths or cartoons so what’s the big deal?

David

Not doing it. Not looking. Not paying any attention. I’m not the grown up this time. She won’t listen to me anyway. What do I care? Just read, read my Classic Comics – Robinson Crusoe in my bed and get up any ol’ time I want to. Glue my model B-25 Mitchell. Bikes, forts, or look for crayfish and salamanders in the creek with Tom or Joel. There’s the door. She’s out the door already. Where’s Mom? Did she eat anything? None-of-my-business. And there she is – gonna get her fingers bit off by the mean horse. Then she’ll be running half-naked around the neighborhood with the dogs. God! So embarrassing. Someone’s going to kidnap her. Good! Ugh! Okay-fine. Get up. Go find her. Dammit.

Janice

There’s his van. Dan’s gone to work. Too bright, too early. Need-a-cigarette-where-are-my-cigarettes? Last night – what was that about? First time in a month. Just needed a good, hard screw. Friggin’ cramps coming on. Just a little while longer. She’ll-be-fine-David’s-up-he’ll-look-after-her. I didn’t sign up for this shit. They’re driving me crazy – fight, fight, fight every friggin’ day. So hot. Probably pissed her pants again. Every-damn-morning-when-will-she-learn? Maybe she’ll get lost or something – or something. Just gone. How bad could it be? Christ! Stop it! I can’t. I just can’t. Lunch, laundry, clean something, endless afternoon, friggin’ TV. Maybe I’ll go back to pressing shirts all day. Which hell? Door number one or door number two? Need-a-cigarette-where-are-my-cigarettes? Supper – gotta think of it now, now – not now – now. Then, as soon as the table is cleared, Dan’s off to the garage working on that friggin’ car. Friggin’ mass on Sunday, dinner with his parents – that bitch. Friggin’ old car club. Friggin’ picnics and potato salad. Friggin’ canasta with the girls. Always someone’s friggin’ birthday. Those damn tics in her ears, burrs in her hair. Where does she pick up this shit? I swear I’ll kill myself. Can’t cry. Not going to cry today. Save it for . . . when? Huh? When?

Dan

Told her the kids are up. Down the driveway, the DMZ between everything. Need-a-cigarette-where-are-my-cigarettes? Hungry – maybe hash browns with the eggs today. Phillis will open up. Need to order dry cleaning fluid and shirt boxes. Ralph sober? Need to do something about that. Maggie needs to dump that boyfriend. Bad for her. So hot – with the presses like working in an oven. Delivery route away from the store. What am I doing picking up and cleaning other people’s clothes? Christ. Janice is what, blue? Last night – what was that about? Pick up another transmission for the ’33 Ford – makes three. Tires for the Model A. Work on it tonight after supper. No, it’s Thursday – gotta do payroll. Maybe I’ll get the part – Harry the Horse. Guys and Dolls. Podunk Ohio isn’t New York. If only I’d gotten on that bus. No wife, house, kids, cleaners, yard to mow. An apartment, ride the subway– meet a nice guy. He’d have some stupid little dog and I would love him, and I would have him all to myself. Who knows? Harry the Horse Off-Broadway. I’d be good. Maybe great. Or Hollywood. I could have been another Dean Martin. I know it. I can feel it. I got to dry clean Paul Lynde’s blazer once. That was something. Wasn’t it?

David Sapp, danieldavidart@gmail.com 

Biographical Information: David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.

I BECAME THE PRIDE OF MY PARENTS

Sarvinoz Mansurova Xasan is daughter, Student of Bukhara State Medical Institute

Sarvinoz Xasan is daughter, Iʼm currently a 3rd-year student at Bukhara State Medical Institute, majoring in General Medicine. I am a recipient of the “Student of the Year” award and a participant in international conferences. I have authored more than 10 scientific articles and achieved numerous international accolades. I am fluent in three languages. Additionally, I am the founder and leader of “Noza Academy,” established to promote youth employment and the personal development of women.

The foundation of my achievements lies in the trust and hard work of my parents. From childhood, my parents instilled in me a love for books and language learning. Their confidence in me is both a responsibility and a source of pride. From my father, I learned not to give up on dreams, always strive forward, and embrace leadership. From my mother, I learned honesty, relentless learning, and responsibility.

Since childhood, I dreamed of studying at a medical institute and becoming a doctor, which I consider my calling. Despite some opposition from relatives who questioned the value of education for a girl, my father supported me, insisting that his children would be well-educated. At 17, I was admitted to the General Medicine program at Bukhara State Medical Institute, and I saw the pride in my parents’ eyes. I received the “Student of the Year” award at the institute with the close support of my teachers.

In February 2024, our team represented Uzbekistan at an international conference held in Azerbaijan. This conference motivated me to work even harder on self-improvement. The foundation of my success is greatly attributed to my parents’ support. They backed me in every aspect and, most importantly, believed in me.

My ultimate goal is to become a highly qualified specialist in my field and contribute to the development of my country. To my peers and the youth, I want to say that the future of Uzbekistan is in our hands. Do not stop until you become the pride of your parents, family, and country. Always work on innovative ideas and projects.

Mansurova Sarvinoz Hassan is a Student of the Bukhara State Medical Institute and the winner of the “Student of the Year” award from the founder and head of the “Noza” brand.

America, Where Are Thou?

I used to live in a place

Called the United States of America

A republic – the first and last hope of mankind

The land of the free, the home of the brave

The envy of the world

The land of the American dream

And now, I am afraid

That the Star-Spangled Banner

No longer flies

Over the land of the brave

And the home of the free.

I wake up

The red, white and blue

Have been overwhelmed

The dark forces of the red states

Have overwhelmed the light of the blue states

Have trounced the reason offered by the Blue States

And the white forces

Lie trembling in fear

I tried to escape

The darkling night

The ever-glowing Orange alerts

And escape somewhere

The leader of the country

The new uncrowned Empire

Rules over us all

Empire Triumphant

Against all enemies

The USA is number one

We chant and scream

And watch FOX TV

As we march off to war

The rest of the world

Trembles in fear at our might

We rule – we rock and roll, and are triumphant

Against all enemies, dissenters, and foreigners

The U.S. marches on to victory

Freedom is on the march

Liberation is at hand

As the rich gather gleeful

Contemplating the plunder of the state

And the poor grow more desperate

I cry out for the country that I have lost

Whose soul has been lost

And the end of the Republic

For which I believed

The empire has won

Long Live the new Caesar

Long Live the New American Empire

Death to all its enemies

As the dream fades into a nightmare

I cry knowing that we have all lost

The last best hope of mankind

Lives buried in the ash heap of history

Tyranny in the guise of Democracy

Rules us all forever and ever

And that flag

The star-spangled banner

Does not wave anymore

Over the land of the free

And the home of the brave

Hello motherland hello land

I was born raised in the bend of this country 

We be sure that you are beautiful today 

It’s all  because of you, my country 

Birds are chirping in your sky

Air quality? Clean and clear

Every boy and girl period 

It’s all because of you, my country 

The magic of the homeland lives in the heart 

Life is different 

Thanks you for reaching this day 

We live in a time of development 

We are taking a step forward 

Not even thinking how it will end 

We are going to the high mountains 

The Sun’s Tears

I do not trust

the sun’s

tears

and Lora’s

love

I do not trust

theweight

ofher word

or the longing

I have for her.

The Drawer of Forgetfulness

I locked you up

in the drawer of forgetfulness

as the crystalline water under the earth

and the crumpled writing on the gray sheet

proof of the time spent in the studio

I saw you

in the labyrinths of the faculty

where the Alphabet’s raytwinkles

your voice can be heard in each class room

in the workbook you

are piling up the memory years.

Lora

We wander through time

like snakes in the bushes

Lora and I

in the ecstasy of the painting

I gave her Mona Lisa’s smile

I drank water from Lora’s bosom

and I lost myself in adolescent dreams,

I gave Lora a life

I gave the sky a kiss

the sun seemed to be silent

and left a free way to darkness

the rainbow lightens my way

fiery I take the stars to the bosom

I hug the sun

to feel its tenderness.

Lora is silent

and she silently speaks

in her blonde hair

I touch the love

embers in the lap

white frost

he left traces

Lora is asleep

with the fiery stars

tickling her lips

in the corrugated crown

the sounds of silence

I put her crown

and I read under her eyelids

the novel I will write

Lora with her bosom as virgin snow

lures the Talmudists’ years

Lora crystalline meteor.

WHAT TO WISH YOU TONIGHT

I am drunken with craving

of cords of your voice

I seek the canary of love

in the labyrinths of the soul

the morning messenger is not heard

nor he knits the sounds cardigan of Monastery

you, the lost one in the waves of forgetfulness.

I glaze the pictures in the museum

I doze in present time

the verb love

I conjugate in first person

Because you loved me

I track in mirative form

the time passed in lucidity

what to wish you tonight as you forgot me.

Ah, with the sweetness of the vowels

Quivered even my lake

we, like two canaries in the mountains

loosing trails in canon

me, you and the voice

tonight brings me back to nostalgia.

Lan Qyqalla, graduated from the Faculty of Philology in the branch of Albanian language and literature in Prishtina, from Republika of Kosovo. He is a professor of the Albanian language in the Gymnasium. He has written in many newspapers, portals, Radio, TV, and Magazines in the Albanian language and in English, Romanian, Francophone, Turkish, Arabic, Italian, Greek, Swedish, Hindu,  Spanish, and Korean.